


One Step Forward, One Step Back

by 4wholecats



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Gen, Time Travel, spoilers for everything probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 18:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16392578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4wholecats/pseuds/4wholecats
Summary: Some short one-shots themed around the concept of time travel.





	1. Ike {Step Back}

It’s after the final battle, after the dust has settled, that Ike finds himself in an inn brooding over a half drunken flagon of beer. There’s a lot to be done still, but for now Ike and his surviving companions celebrate. Of course, not everyone is jubilant. Sanaki wasn’t even here, he had noticed a few moments ago. No doubt she’d gone to attend to Sephiran’s body, cooling in one of Begnion’s morgues. Micaiah sat at a table in the corner of the room with Sothe, a grim expression settling over her face as she ate the meal the innkeeper had provided for her. 

 

Ike sighs into his drink, eyes sliding closed. The exhaustion is getting to him. All the fighting, all the walking up and down that damned tower… Perhaps, after the celebrations and the chaos died down, he would take a break. A nice long break from mercenary work; to see the world not through the eyes of a soldier, but as someone who travels for the sake of travel itself. It would certainly be a nice change of pace. Perhaps Soren would like to come with him? 

 

He takes another sip of his drink and stands, intent of finding his strategist. 

 

And then he’s not in the inn anymore. 

 

In the blink of an eye, the dimly lit bar has become a sea of trees, dark and looming. It’s colder than it was when the party first stepped out of the tower, nevermind the fact that there were no trees in the middle of the Begnion capital. It feels like a dream.

 

Ike steps forward, boots crunching leaves and sticks underfoot. He knows these woods, he’s almost sure of it. Not far from here is the Greil Mercenaries’ old base, and Ike begins to walk in it’s direction. It doesn’t matter whether this is real, a vision, or some sort of beer fueled hallucination; it would be nice to see his old home again, no matter what memories the place dragged back to the surface.

 

He can hear voices, so he stops and crouches down in the brush. He knows these voices as well.

 

Greil orders his son to go back to the base. A young man’s voice grumbles and Ike has to clamp a hand down over his mouth in order to stay silent. This is not just some drunken vision. This is a proper nightmare. 

 

He follows Greil’s footsteps through the woods, stepping carefully so that he does not alert the older man to his presence. At some point, he overtakes him and arrives at an empty clearing. Perhaps this is not the night?

 

But then, the air a few feet away from him wavers and trembles, and suddenly, Ike is not alone. The Black Knight blinks into existence just a short distance away from the hidden mercenary, reeling slightly from using the warp powder. Ike’s heart is in his throat; suddenly he can feel the stone tiles of the tower underneath his feet and he can smell Zelgius’s blood on the Ragnell’s blade. The mighty sword is in his hand in an instant and before Ike has even realized what he is doing, he sprints from his cover.

 

It’s a cowardly thing to do; attacking a man while his back is turned. But Ike has given Zelgius an honorable death once today, so he allows himself this moment of selfishness as he aims for a chink in the holy armor and buries Ragnell in the other man’s back.   

 

The Black Knight lets out a surprised gasp, hand tightly gripping his own copy of Ragnell, as Ike pulls his blade free from where it pokes out of his enemy’s chest. Zelgius doubles over immediately, his free hand clawing at the exit wound in his sternum and blood dripping out of the holes in his helmet.

 

“Who…” He rasps, voice garbled by both the blood in his mouth and the echo of his helmet. 

 

Ike watches as he falls to one knee, leaning on his Ragnell for support. His other hand leaves the wound on this chest and fumbles for Alondite, still sheathed on his waist. Ike nudges his hand away with his own sword, watching the blood pool on the ground. Greil would be here any second now, and hopefully he would leave safe as well, even if this was just a dream. 

 

Zelgius gasps again, slouching further onto the ground until he is laying on his back, breathing heavily. Ike firmly sticks his sword into the dirt before kneeling down next to the dying man’s head. He fumbles around with the Black Knight’s helmet for a moment before pulling it off and laying it to the side. There’s blood running down Zelgius’s chin, staining his shirt and cape.

 

“I can’t let you kill Greil. I’m sorry I didn’t give you a proper fight this time.” Ike says. 

 

His adrenaline has died down a bit, but the sight of his nemesis bleeding out in the dirt isn’t bringing him as much satisfaction as he had hoped. After all, someone will still die in this clearing, and Ike is taking revenge for a crime that hasn’t been committed yet. The events of the day have numbed him. 

 

Zelgius chokes a little, his eyes cloudy with confusion and pain. He reaches for his remaining warp powder but Ike swats his hand away again. The man would be dead on arrival anyways. 

 

There are footsteps a short ways away. Greil, Urvan held tightly in his hands, has caught up to them. He looks at Ike, then at the man on the ground, and swings his axe to face both of them. Ike stares at his father for what seems like an eternity before getting to his feet and collecting Ragnell. At some point, Zelgius had stopped breathing, eyes sliding closed. Awkwardly, Ike clears his throat and faces his father.

 

“Uh… You’re welcome. And sorry, I guess.” 

 

Ike’s vision becomes muddy, and suddenly the older mercenary is alone in the clearing with the body of his proudest student. 

 


	2. Sigurd [Step Forward]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can only write angst im sorry

Sigurd would have vomited, if he had the chance. Not just because of the smell of cooking meat that was coming off of him, not because of the pain that flashed through his nerves like wildfire, but because of the despair he felt at the very core of his being. He can’t see, he can’t breathe, and he can’t speak, and he knows that this really is the end, and that Deirdre really is gone,  _ and there’s nothing he can do about it.  _ He shudders on the burning ground, counting down the seconds until his body finally decides to give out on him.

 

That moment never comes. 

 

One second there is the crackling of fires and the distant sounds of horses and soldiers, and in the next there is nothing. Absolutely nothing. Sigurd had hoped the afterlife would be painless, however his skin is still bubbling and crawling under the remains of his clothes. One of his eyes cracks open slightly, as much as he can force it to. The grass he is laying in is no longer burned, but long and healthy. 

 

He lets out a stream of rough hacking coughs. This is a much nicer place to die, all things considered. 

 

He doesn’t hear the footsteps behind him, but he hears the voices. Someone kneels down in front of him, a hand hovering towards him, brushing hair out of his eyes. The light touch hurts, and Sigurd can see the person (who is really more of a vaguely human-shaped blue blob at this point) move aside, out of his field of vision. He wants to reach out, to prevent the person from leaving him here alone in the dirt, but then a new person takes their place. 

 

There is a warm glow above him, and his breath hitches as his skin forcibly cools under the healing magic. It hurts so badly that Sigurd’s vision goes white for a solid five seconds. The magic subsides and there are hands on him again, their motions stronger than before but still gentle. Lightning lances through his nerves as the blue blob carefully turns him onto his back. Then there are hands under his shoulders and his knees, and everything spirals into nothingness as he’s lifted off the ground. 

 

He wakes up to the smell of soap and alcohol. There’s a burning sensation all along his left side. There’s a woman humming near him. He’s too hot and too cold all at the same time, his head won’t stop pounding, and his lungs feel like they are full of live bees. All in all, everything is terrible, but probably not as terrible as being dead. 

 

The smell of alcohol intensifies and suddenly a patch of skin on his left arm feels like it’s been savagely hacked off with a hunting knife. He jolts suddenly, curling up into a ball as much as his body will let him, clawing at his arm. It’s wet.

 

The humming stops as soon as he lets his wakefulness be know to the world. 

 

“Oh Gods!” The woman speeds over to the other side of the bed to face Sigurd. 

 

He hacks into his hand and stares up at her with one wide eye (his other won’t respond). Her hair is blonde and her voice is steady, despite clearly having been startled by her patient’s rude awakening. His first thought is that his army must have rescued him, for him to be still alive and in a medical tent. He feels guilty that Lachesis has to see him in such a state, but at least he is in good hands. Hope blossoms in his chest and he prays that when this is all over, he will still have the strength to fight for Deirdre. 

 

“I’m so sorry sir! I thought you would still be out for a few more hours, I was getting ready to clean you up,” She’s very close to him, one hand on his head, the other holding an alcohol soaked rag. 

 

Sigurd tries to speak but only wheezes and coughs come out. The blonde woman sets the rag aside on a nearby tray and turns away from the bed to search through a nearby cabinet. She returns with a staff in her hand, and she places a cool hand over his burning forehead. 

 

“You’ll be okay, I promise. But for now, I need you to go back to sleep.”

 

Sigurd blacks out again.

 

The next time he wakes, it is in darkness. The white-hot sting of the alcohol on his numb skin is replaced by an ache that persists throughout his whole body, right down to his very bones. He’s on his back now, staring up at the canvas ceiling of what he assumes is still the medical tent. It hurts to move, but a look to either side of him lets Sigurd is alone here. He could have sworn more had been hurt in that last fateful battle, but he’s glad that the other beds are empty. He just hopes they are empty because everyone is fine, not because everyone is dead. 

 

He raises an arm to his face. He can feel his skin creaking like old leather, and there isn’t an inch of him that’s not covered completely in bandages. He doesn’t need to pull back the blanket to know that he’s naked, but it doesn’t really matter since he’s been mummified anyways. Fingers brushing against his face tell him that his left eye is bandaged up tightly, probably never to be used again. 

 

He yanks the blanket up to his face and coughs loudly into it. His lungs and throat are still itchy and raw, so he looks around for some water, but sadly finds none. A rustling from somewhere out of his line of sight makes the injured man tense up, but the disturbance is only a young cleric girl.

 

“Oh! You look a little better now, I think. Easy, let’s get you sitting up and I’ll grab you some water.” She speaks softly, guiding him into a sitting position. 

 

His legs are still mostly numb below the knees, and everything above is jittering and painful, so it takes him a minute to right himself against the additional pillows she provides for him. She reaches behind him and grabs a glass of water, guiding it into his shaking hands. He can feel the weight of the cup but he cannot feel the temperature or the texture, and he hopes that’s just a side effect of whatever medicine the clerics have given him. 

 

They sit in silence for a few minutes as Sigurd finishes the water. Despite the fact that he’d been unconscious just moments ago, a sudden wave of exhaustion overtakes him, and he allows himself to be guided back under the blanket by the young cleric girl. He wonders when Lachesis will be back on duty before closing his eyes and drifting to sleep.

 

The tent is busier when Sigurd wakes next. His thoughts are no longer fuzzy and he feels more alert than he has in a while (probably on account of the pain). He makes no motion to draw attention to himself as he wakes, content with sitting immobile for a few minutes as people go about their business in the tent. There are a lot of clerics, none of whom he recognizes, folding sheets and attending to minor wounds of other soldiers. There must have been some sort of light skirmish recently but by the looks of it, no one was badly injured.

 

The young cleric from before takes notice that he is awake and bustles over, preparing another glass of water for him as he scoots himself upright. He accepts it gratefully.

 

“It’s good to see you awake! You’ve been barely lucid for the past week; we were worried you had a head injury or something,” she says lightly, pulling scissors and fresh bandages out of a nearby drawer. Sigurd doesn’t remember being conscious whatsoever, but the cleric doesn’t seem worried, so he doesn’t bother dwelling on it. 

 

“Can you speak?” She asks, sitting on a stool next to him.

 

Sigurd tries, but as soon as he makes even the slightest sound his voice breaks down into gasps and coughs. She rubs his back gently as he slouches, attempting to regain control of his breathing.

 

“Don’t push yourself too hard sir; it seems like you breathed in a lot of smoke. It might be a few days before the cough dies down.” She says sympathetically. 

 

“How about we get you cleaned up? Your bandages have to be changed anyways. Do you think you want to take a bath?” She asks, taking the empty glass from him. 

 

Sigurd nods and the cleric waves over an aid. Together they manage to move Sigurd off the bed, supporting most of his weight between them. His legs are less bandaged than his upper body is, but it still hurts to walk, so they take their time going to the bath at the back of the tent. At least someone was kind enough to put some loose pants on him while he had been asleep.

  
  


They sit him on a stool and the aid begins filling the tub with water. Meanwhile, the other cleric begins to remove his bandages carefully. His skin stings as it’s exposed to the cool air, and he hesitates before looking down at himself. 

 

He doesn’t recognise his body. 

 

His skin is still raw and healing, but it’s evident it will remain scarred indefinitely. Pockmarks and deep gashes run up and down his arms and legs where the healers had removed the flesh that was too damaged to heal. His left side was especially bad with not a single inch of unmarked skin visible at all. 

 

He doesn’t notice he’s crying until a tear sears one of the scars on his lap. The cleric finishes unwrapping the bandages on his head and goes to get some soap and a rag. She returns to see him slouched over, head in his hands, choking back tears. 

 

“Hey, hey… I know it hurts, It’s gonna be okay. You’ll be back on your feet in no time!” She assures him, crouching down next to the stool. He looks at her forlornly through his rough fingers. The pain is the least of his worries. How will he raise a son like this?  _ How will Deirdre recognize him like this? _

 

The bath helps with the pain a little. He notices, as the nurse scrubs away at his wounds, that his brand has been burned off. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything but sigh. He catches sight of his face in a small mirror as the cleric helps him out of the water. His eye is indeed scarred shut, rendering it useless. The skin on his face matches that which is on his arms and legs; red and blistered. The right side seems to have been saved somewhat, but even there he can see the dark shadows pressed under his eye. They cut his hair too, which was fine since it was probably burned and dead anyways. It’s short, cropped at the level of his ears in order to keep it from bothering the already irritated skin on the back of his neck.

 

Later, once he’s dry, bandaged, fed, and back under the blankets, the cleric on duty lets him know he has a visitor. These last few hours of forced silence has left him more alone with his thoughts than he prefers, so he is grateful for the possibility of seeing a friendly face. 

 

A young man with blue hair walks into the tent. After speaking to one of the healers, he approaches Sigurd’s bedside, sitting in a chair close by. Sigurd doesn’t know this man, and his heart feels heavy. Do his friends not care enough to see him? He hopes it’s not because of his appearance, as awful as it may be. The visitor looks well meaning enough, but Sigurd could really use some support from a trusted friend right now.

 

“I’m glad to see you awake,” The man says gently. “You gave us quite a scare when we found you!” The man folds his hands in his lap, looking at Sigurd with kind eyes. In fact, he almost looks familiar, but from where, the burned man doesn’t know. If they are indeed in Sigurd’s camp, it’s likely that he’s seen this man before in passing, but something doesn’t sit quite right.

 

“Nanna told me that you’re not really talking yet so I apologise for not being able to call you by name, but I can leave you with mine. I am Lord Seliph. You’re in my army’s camp.”

 

Seliph.

 

Impossible.

 

Sigurd’s heart skips a beat and then begins to skyrocket. It’s not a common name, not by any means. The familiar young man holds out a hand to shake, and Sigurd takes it weakly. Seliph smiles, and suddenly Sigurd sees Deirdre instead, abet with his own blue hair. He yanks back his hand suddenly and flings himself over to the other side of the bed, vomiting for real this time. 

 

“Oh gods- Lana! There’s something wrong with him!” Seliph stands from his stool to lean over the bed, supporting Sigurd as dry-heaves onto the floor. The cleric, Lana, rushes over immediately, staff at the ready.

 

“What happened?”

 

“I don’t know, I shook his hand and then he vomited all over the floor!”

 

“I’m so sorry sir, I’ll get this cleaned up right away!” She says to Seliph as she brushes back Sigurd’s hair and wipes his mouth with a towel.

 

“Don’t worry about me, Lana. Let’s mop this up and-” Sigurd passes out before he can hear the rest, panic attack finally setting in fully.

 

Naga must have pulled a hell of a lot of strings to arrange this. 

 

Sigurd, upon waking, finds that he is completely unable to process what is going on around him. At first, he thinks the introduction was all a dream, but Seliph stopping back in to check on him a few days later puts that theory to rest. Then he considers the possibility of this man’s name being a coincidence. But the similarities between not only Sigurd and Seliph, but also Deirdre and Seliph are all too apparent. 

 

If Sigurd were a different man he might have asked Naga to stick her strange dimensional powers where the sun don’t shine, but he is the descendant of a crusader, so he keeps his proverbial mouth shut.

 

His voice comes back a week after he first wakes up. Once the clerics find out he can speak, they will ask him his name, of course. He heavily considers offering them a fake one, but something in him twists uncomfortably at the thought of keeping Seliph at arms reach like this. He wants nothing more than to protect his son, after all, and it’s hard to get close to nobility if they don’t know who you are, no matter how much of a “man of the people” Seliph seemed to be. 

 

It’s only after he’s finally cleared from the medical tent that he gets the chance to properly introduce himself. The clerics give him an extra roll of bandages and send him on his way one evening. He’s feeling much better now overall, but the burns have made Sigurd’s skin feel permanently too tight and the anxiety caused by the thought of speaking with his adult son wasn’t helping. He’s got a large cloak wrapped around him not only for warmth, but to conceal the awful scaring still covering his face. Most of this army hadn’t seen him yet, and he’d hate to be stabbed in the dead of night because someone mistook him for some form of monster. 

 

There is a campfire near his tent. Around it, a few young men sit, including Seliph himself. To is right is a young brown haired boy, falling asleep atop of a log. On his left is a broad shouldered blond man, polishing a wicked looking (and familiar) sword. Seliph himself was holding a long stick and poking the fire, staring into its depths. The other men, the ones Sigurd isn’t acquainted with yet, look frighteningly similar to two of his dearest friends. He hopes that once he explains himself to Seliph, he will get a chance to meet them. 

 

Sigurd keeps to the shadows as the blond man sheaths his sword and stands, stretching his arms and back out. He and Seliph quietly exchange some words before the other man shakes the brown haired boy awake. They both make their way back towards the heart of the camp, leaving their friend alone to continue poking the fire. 

 

Sigurd takes this opportunity to slink out of his hiding spot, walking towards the campfire. Seliph notices him once he steps into the fire’s warm glow. The young man tenses up, clearly not recognizing him under the cloak, but relaxes once Sigurd removes his hood.

 

“So they let you out of the infirmary today? I’m happy to see you’re doing better,” Seliph says. 

 

“Why don’t you join me?” He motions to a log near his own which Sigurd sits down upon unsteadily. They sit in silence for a few minutes, staring into the fire. It takes the former lord of Chalphy a moment to summon up his voice, and when he finally does speak, it is quiet and gravelly. 

 

“Seliph…”

 

“Oh! Your voice is back; how excellent!” The young man interrupts him, eyes shining. 

 

“Yes, though I admit it still hurts a bit to speak above a whisper.”

 

“Oh, well then in that case,” Seliph scoots down on his own log, patting the wood next to him, “you can come over here. No need to strain yourself when you’re still healing.”

 

Sigurd hesitates for a moment before abandoning his log in favor of sharing one with his son. He can  _ feel  _ the question in the air, and the stress of it all is making him choke more than the nearby smell of fire is.

 

“So. Now that you are feeling a little better, may I have your name? I’d like to know what I can introduce you as, since you are traveling with us.”

 

Ah. There’s the question.

 

Sigurd fumbles with his thoughts for a second before glaring pointedly at the ground, preparing to address his son.

 

“Do you recognize me, Seliph?” Seliph’s eyebrows crease and he looks intently at Sigurd’s face, or at least, the good half. 

 

“I’m sorry my friend, but I’m afraid I don’t. At least I don’t think so… Forgive my rudeness for saying this, but your face… does not make it easy to tell your identity.”

 

Sigurd stiffles a very ungentlemanly snort, because of course, Seliph is right. He can’t even recognize himself in the mirror. Why should he have expected his son, who had only seen him when he was just a baby, to immediately recognize him?

 

“Seliph… If I say something weird… are you going to send me back to the infirmary?”

 

“Hmm… Well that entirely depends on what you would say I believe.”

 

“Fair. In regards to my identity…” Sigurd’s throat is dry as he finally makes eye contact with Seliph.

 

“M-my name is Sigurd. Uh, Lord Sigurd. Of Chalphy.”

 

Seliph blinks at him.

 

“That’s a cruel joke to play, sir.” The younger man (though not by much) looks forlorn now. This isn’t going how Sigurd had hoped it would.

 

“It’s not a joke! That’s my name, I promise! I was injured at Belhalla but somehow ended up in this camp, with all of you… I thought it was all a crazy dream at first but I’m still here so evidently not, and I’ve been trying to figure out a way to tell you for the past week that wouldn’t make you think I’m insane, which, evidently I FAILED… and-”

 

Seliph raises a hand, silencing Sigurd.

 

“If you are Sigurd of Chalphy, that would make you my father, correct?”

 

“Yes. It would.”

 

“What’s my mother like?”

 

Sigurd is shaken by the unexpected question. He had expected denials, possibly even threats.

 

“Deirdre was a kind woman from the spirit forest. She had silver hair and she always wore white and purple. She loved you more than anything, Seliph.”

 

Seliph hums next to him.

 

“You know, I had a feeling, when we picked you up. I felt like I knew you, but I didn’t really know from where. I managed to get a good look at your clothes before the clerics threw them all out, and it wasn’t hand to figure out where they came from.” Sigurd sits in stunned silence, so he continues.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier that I knew. I thought it impossible, and I didn’t want to embarrass you if all of this was just coincidence.”

 

“Seliph…” Sigurd’s voice wavers.

 

“Father, I grew up of stories of your life and your achievements, but if it's alright, I think I’d like to hear them again from you. If you’d rather not talk abo-”

 

Seliph doesn’t get a chance to finish. Sigurd wraps his son up in a tight hug and doesn’t let go for a long, long time. The next morning, Ares and Leif find them leaning against one of the logs of the burned out campfire, wrapped up in Sigurd’s oversized cloak, and very soundly asleep.


End file.
